National Representation Act
by Defiant-Dreams
Summary: The nations are exposed to the world after one of their own kind comes back from the dead mere seconds after getting shot. They struggle to explain to their people who and what they are. America's POV.
1. The Death

"Get down! Hands behind your head! Do not move or I will shoot you!"

Alfred froze. He gave the banker in front of him an alarmed look which she mirrored, her eyes wide. He dropped his card on the table. Slowly, Alfred turned to face the man who had yelled, and dropped to his knees. Fuck, fuck, fuck. A robbery? Really?

The three men held out their guns menacingly, faces hidden behind ski masks. Damn. Typical. They turned away from him, heading toward the back room. Right. The safe.

Alfred looked them over. He couldn't recognize them, not while they were this far. The man who had yelled looked lean and strong, but Alfred was pretty sure he could take him. The man on his right was bigger and buff; he would probably pose as a problem. And the last guy was small and slight-wait. Alfred's eyes narrowed. Okay, yeah, that was actually a woman. Whoops.

He stared at them, hand creeping to the gun inside his jacket. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his fingers closing over the handle. He pulled it out slowly, and then the woman turned. She stiffened, her eyes flicking to the gun in his hand and then to his face.

"Freeze!" She yelled, bringing her gun up. The two men turned too, raising their guns at him. Alfred froze, his grip tightening on his gun. And then he grinned, bright and easy. Ooh, he knew her name now. Jess Douglas, age 26, struggling actor... single mom to two kids. He blinked, his grip slackening on the gun. Damn, he shouldn't have Looked at her. The Looking thing always made him indecisive.

"Aren't the police the ones who usually say that?" He says conversationally, smiling at the three of them. He is not going to Look at the two guys. Gah. He'd probably let them rob the bank if he knew who they were. He didn't even want to shoot them now. But whatever, he could persuade them.

"Drop the gun." The buff dude grunted and pointed his own gun at the woman beside him. She stiffened, her eyes wide as she stared at Alfred pleadingly. He stared back at her. Sami Daves, age 22, newly married. Alfred bit his lip, and dropped the gun beside him. The man directed his gun to Alfred and the woman let out a long sigh of relief.

"Only one weapon, Mister Army Man?" The other guy asked cooly. Oh, so these were professional robbers. They didn't even seem that scared. And was he wearing his uniform? He looked down. Oh, right. The awarding thing. He'd forgotten about the medals. Maybe that's why the lady was smiling at him earlier.

He sighed, and reached inside his other pocket. He grabbed the second gun he kept and pulled it out, dropping it right beside the first one.

"Air Force, actually. And I don't make it a habit to carry a lot of weapons." He said calmly. They stared at him, grips tightening on their guns. Okay fine, he wasn't even in Air Force anymore, because the whole 20/20 vision thing was a drag, but whatever. Close enough.

"Hand to hand is so much better."

He lunged.

Three shots.

Alfred grinned, and rolled to the side. The shots rickoted off the floor, bullets breaking the concrete. He laughed, adrenaline running through his veins.

He slammed a fist into the buff guys's stomach. The man grunted, and then brought his own fist down on Alfred's head. Alfred spun to the side, avoiding it easily, a small smirk on his face.

He kneed the other man, and he keened, dropping to his knees in pain. Alfred laughed, spinning around wildly to avoic Jess' shot. He elbowed the buff guy, before pulling back to avoid an uppercut to the jaw.

Bitch please, he's been fighting for over 400 years. He's not that easily beaten.

He is, however, easily distracted.

As the buff guy takes another swing at him, Alfred steps back. Right into the path of the other guy's gun. He's dimly aware of a shot, and then searing pain in the back of his skull.

Alfred blinks, and stares at the darkness around him. He huffs, and taps his foot impatiently. Agh, fuck the National Representation Act; they were going to realize he wasn't dead anyway. Alfred wasn't just going to lie down and pretend he was dead while they robbed a bank. He'd be a horrible hero if he let that happen. Besides, his people would probably just think he was an angel sent by God, or a supernatural creature or whatever. Not an androgynous representation of their nation, of course not.

His eyes flutter open, just as the guys who shot him stands up and walks past him, obviously shaken. He can hear crying somewhere to his side, and Alfred bites his lip. The back of his head is matted with blood and he has a massive headache but the bullet is on the floor and the hole is gone, so Alfred's pretty content already.

He reaches inside his back pocket and grabs the third gun he keeps on him. He hesitates for a moment and then he rolls and points his gun at the three.

The civilians gasp, and the three freeze at the sound.

"That was a very bad thing to do." He said calmly. They turn towards him, fear in their eyes at the sight of a dead man. Alfred almost feels guilty.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but then the doors burst open, and the police are there. Alfred looks up at them, and blinks.

"About time." He grumbles. They stare at him, and then down at his medals. They nod slowly. Alfred flashes a smile at them, and then looks back at the three shell-shocked robbers.

"If anyone says anything weird, just tell your Chief it's an NRA thing. Did you hear me? _NRA_. He'll understand." Alfred says clearly. They nod again, still looking slightly confused. Alfred gives them one last movie-star grin before he stands up and walks out of the bank.

"Sir, you have to give a statement!"

Alfred pauses, and then looks at the crowd of news reporters. Oh shit. Everyone was going to see his face on national TV. Then they were going to see the surveillance feed and realize he was the man who just got up after a serious head wound that really should have killed him.

He flashes a brilliant smile at them all, and then bolts. He runs away, pushing past the crowd.

This was so bad. He was going to get in so much trouble.

Of course, at that time, Alfred didn't know just how much trouble.

* * *

So. I currently have three incomplete stories now. Yay distractions! I am a very fickle person, just so you know. My mind does not like staying with one story! Haha. This is gen, so yeah, okay?

*edit: Fuck. I gave you guys the unedited version. My apologies. This one is right, i think.


	2. The Calls

Alfred panted, blue eyes wide. His blonde hair flew as he ran, wind rushing into him. His legs pumped harder as he sprinted past a Starbucks. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He skidded around a corner and almost crashed into a woman but she jumped out of the way as he barreled past her with an indignant cry on her lips.

He glanced behind him, and practically groaned in relief at the streets filled with people who were _not_ reporters. He slowed down into a jog, muscles tense as he Looked at everyone who passed by him, flinching a little at some of their lives. As long as they were not reporters it was fine.

He let out a long breath as Central Park came into view. God. He walked slowly past the entrance and people milling around to a random tree and slid down, rough bark scratching the bomber jacket that he had worn over his dark blue dress uniform.

He groaned, thumping his head back against the tree. Damn. This shitstorm would probably last 2 weeks tops before they got over the mysterious man who survived a headshot. Unless, of course, they managed to get a HD video of his face and his "death". From different angles, preferably. He knew his people. They were a suspicious lot. They needed to see it before they really believed it. Unless it was about God, though.

He sighed, and looked up at the sky. It's not like they'd be able to find him. They'd have to know his name first. Did he give his name? No, he's pretty sure he didn't.

Alfred brought his knees up to his chest and dropped his head on them, sighing again. He probably should have pretended he was dead, shouldn't he? Or maybe he shouldn't have fought at all. Maybe he should have pretended to be a scared civilian and discreetly pressed the distress button. Why didn't he do that, again?

Right. Because he was the hero. Alfred grinned at that, but then it quickly faded. What kind of hero did something like that anyway?

He huffed. Agh. It wasn't like-_God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen._

Arthur, damn. He hesitated for a moment and looked down at his pants nervously. He so did not want to answer that call.

Alfred reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone anyway, wincing a little as he answered the call and pressed his cell to his ear.

"Hello?" He said into the phone uncertainly.

_"Alfred." _Oh shit. Arthur was mad. What did he do this time? Shit, were they already broadcasting the bank robbery?

"Yes?" He squeaked.

"Would you mind explaining to me what exactly I'm seeing?" Arthur said calmly, the sounds of teacups clinking and voices in the background travelling over the line.

"Um. Well. What are you, uh, looking at?" Alfred replied uncertainly as he bit his lip. Was Arthur making tea again? Maybe he wouldn't be so mad if he was. Maybe Arthur wasn't even talking about the robbery in the first place.

"Your face on the telly, that's all. _Alfred F. Jones, __age unknown, military prodigy! _And look at that; there's a video of your heroic 'miracle' too." Arthur's voice was dangerous; he was practically seething in anger and disbelief.. Alfred flinched. Okay, Arthur was still mad, tea or no tea.

And then it hit him.

"Oh god. How did they-I didn't-How do they know my name?" Alfred sputtered, eyes wide. Arthur was silent, the sounds of the TV echoing through the line. Alfred winced as Arthur cursed loudly. What did they say? He couldn't hear what they were saying, damn it!

"You bloody idiot! You left your bank card on the table, you git! I can't believe you! There's a _video_ that shows you getting shot _in the head_, and getting back up seconds after! _America, _really? Why didn't you stay in the Darkness longer?" Arthur shrieked. Oh damn. He called Alfred by his country name. Alfred stomped down the random urge to whistle lowly.

Alfred had left his card on the table in front of the woman before he had dropped down. Oh god. How could he have forgotten that?

"Arthur, fuck, I'm-."

"Don't you _Arthur_, me, you git! How are you going to explain this?" Arthur cut in.

"They were going to rob the bank!" He yelled. Arthur scoffed and Alfred could practically see him roll his eyes.

"Yes, in which case, you could have called for help and pressed the bloody distress button! You don't attack them, you idiot!" Arthur snapped.

"They could have gotten away!" Alfred argued indignantly.

"_Yes, _but at least you wouldn't have _died_!" There's something different about Arthur's tone now, and Alfred blinks in surprise.

"Arthur, are you _worried? _It's okay, I'm alive now, aren't I?" Alfred said, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

"And that's the problem, Alfred. You're _alive _and you got shot in the head." Arthur grumbles, and Alfred winces at the sound of porcelain breaking. Arthur curses, and there's sounds of it being pushed around.

"Lots of people survive shots to the head! It wasn't even direct!" Alfred protests, a small frown on his lips.

"And gets up one minute later?" Arthur challenges. He hisses and there's more sounds that Alfred hears in the background. People arguing and debating, porcelain clinking and Arthur's shuffles as he moved around.

Alfred flinches. "No." He admits defeatedly. He pouts.

"It was a direct shot, by the way. They've been replaying it over and over." Arthur says flatly. Alfred flinches at that and rubs the back of his head, right where the bullet hit. His fingers scratch the blonde hair matted by dried blood and he shudders. Arthur sighs, a static noise over the phone.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asks, tone softer. Alfred hums in confirmation, and Arthur sighs again.

"People are going to ask questions." He says simply. Alfred smiles wryly.

"Duh. They're my people." He snarks, and maybe he's a little too proud of that, so what?

"Brat. Did you at least explain to the Chief?" Arthur grumbled. Alfred frowned and looked up through the shade of the leaves thoughtfully.

"I think? I told the men at the scene to tell Chief it was an NRA thing. If he has no idea what that means then he'll probably ask the Secret Services or whatever. They'll tell him what he needs to know and if he's a good cop he'll stop asking." Alfred replied.

"Mhmm." Arthur hums in acknowledgment. "That's good. Except NRA also stands for National Rifle Association and National Roads Authority, Alfred."

"Yeah." Alfred agrees, grinning slightly. At least he actually did something right this time. Kind of. Not really. Whatever.

"I'll call you back later. _Do_ take care of this problem, and _do _take care of yourself, lad. Everyone's slipped everynow and then. You'll be fine. Stay out of trouble though and keep your head down. Two weeks minimum." Arthur tells him tiredly.

Alfred groans. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll go to Hawaii, get a nice tan, go surfing or whatever. Bye, mom."*

Arthur snorts, and hangs up. Alfred groans again, and slams his head on the tree. And then his phone rings again.

_O Canada! Our home and native land!_ Matthew? He really damn hoped that it had nothing to do about his mistake. He lifts his head up and answers the call.

"Mattie, hey! What's up, baby bro?" He calls out cheerfully, a huge smile on his face. There's silence on the other end and Alfred blinks worriedly.

"Mattie?" He asks slowly, his smile becoming smaller.

"... So. How's your head, eh?"

Alfred's smile falls off completely.

"Shut up." He grumbles.

"Al, you're an idiot." His brother groans exasperatedly. "What are you going to do? Has your President called you?"

"It's not a big deal! I'll just relocate to Hawaii or whatever. 2 weeks and everyone'll forget about it." Alfred whined. Come to think of it, the Boss hadn't called him yet. He winced. It was going to happen in a while he supposed.

"Forget that Alfred F. Jones was shot in the head and _lived_? Al!" Matthew replied indignantly.

"I'll take care of it, dude. Don't worry. Fake my death and all. Can you imagine? Medical mystery! Man dies of bullet wound hours after he stops bank robbery!" Alfred soothed as he laughed slightly. Matthew huffed, static reverberating through the line.

"And what happens when you appear in public again, eh?" Matthew challenged. Alfred frowned.

"Oh, well... I dunno, man." Alfred admitted, eyebrows furrowing slightly. He paused and frowned, before he continued.

"It was probably weird that a 19-year-old had so many military achiviements, huh? It takes away credibility. People'll think I was fake, or that it was a public stunt or whatever. Whatever explains me." He laughed.

"Besides, there are lots of people who look like me, you know." He continued, smirking slightly. "Blonde hair, blue eyes? Not an uncommon combination, man."

Matthew was silent and Alfred pulled his phone away from his ear just to check that he didn't accidently hang up on his brother. He frowned in confusion when he saw that he didn't and put it back against his ear.

"Mattie? Baby bro, you still there?" He asks uncertainly. There's a shuddering breath in answer and Alfred bites his lip worriedly. Just as he's about to speak more, Matthew finally replies.

"Oh god, we're twins." Matthew says dimly, an odd tone to his voice.

"Yeah, dude. Did you just realize that or something?" Alfred asked, his face screwing up as he laughed in slight amusement.

"I look like _you._" Matthew said aghast. "We have the same face, Al!"

Alfred blinked and frowned. "Yeah, that's what happens when we're twins, Matt."

"Alfred! If they run a face scan or whatever then they'll go through me! We're registered as siblings!" Matthew says horrified.

"In a registration that happened hundreds of years ago, yeah." Alfred scoffed as he hid his slight fear. He bit his lip and ran his fingers through the grass he was sitting on.

"Exactly, Al." Matthew hissed.

"What's the possibility of that happening? The Secret Service got those registrations locked down, dude." Alfred grumbled.

"And what about your subscriptions? Your health benefits? Your fake IDs? I'm pretty sure those aren't protected." Matthew sniped. Alfred winced.

"Um, doctor-patient discretion? All my IDs are with me? Terms of Agreement wherein they're not allowed to reveal my subscriptions?" Alfred said weakly. Matthew groaned.

"What's stopping them?" Matthew argued. Alfred swallowed nervously.

"Er. The fact that I could sue them? Their credibility? The trust of the America people? Jail, maybe?"

Matthew was silent and Alfred sighed in relief. If his brother didn't have anything else to add, then he was probably okay.

"What if there's a security breach, Al? Your military records aren't really protected by your Secret Service, you know." Matthew said softly. Alfred sighed.

"Then it won't be the first time. I mean, for example, nobody cares about the Roswell crash anymore, and I don't think anyone remembers that time Francis streaked through England anymore. I mean, remember that time you accidently won the lottery? Nobody remembers that sort of thing anymore." Alfred scoffed. Matthew hummed in agreement.

"Well, yeah, that's true..." Matthew said uncertainly.

"Then what's me getting shot when I've got shot like, I don't know, hundreds of times during wartime? And to that commie bastard surviving that explosion? And hell, I'm pretty sure someone's survived a plane crash once." Alfred reasoned as he smiled slightly. Matthew sighed.

"If you're talking about Feliks, don't be mean. He's not over that yet, Al. You can't joke about things like that." Matthew murmured. He was quiet for a while and Alfred tapped his fingers against the back of his phone.

"I suppose it'll be fine." He finally said uncertainly. Alfred laughed.

"Totally, man! Of course I'll be fine. _We'll_ be fine. For realz, brah!" Alfred chirped cheerfully. Matthew made a soft sound of slight disbelief and Alfred huffs slightly.

"Trust me, dude. Everything will be a-okay."

* * *

So, lol, I have this headcanon that Alfred easily forgets the names of people and considering that the nations' human names are how they're labeled in his phone, in case he loses it, he just makes their ringtone their national anthem so he knows who's calling. I'll try my best not to mention any real-life names, so Presidents will just be referred to as such and "Boss." I kind of failed already with Poland though. *wince*

*Mom! Arthur is Alfred's mommy and he simultaneously hates and loves that. Shameless reference to Wildflowers, lol. Couldn't help it. I loved the dynamic in my previous fic.

Anyway, just came back from the beach, got an allergy attack over some stupid mangoes and i couldn't stop throwing up. For realz. It was horrible. Good thing it was during thr 4th day, lol. And i didn't even burn that much! Usually, my skin tans easily, but sunblock saved the day! I find foreigners and their red tans kind of funny, no offense. We Filipinos just become darker right away without the whole redness stage. I'd tell you guys more about the beach, but you wouldn't want to know anyway.

The thing with phone convos is that you rely so much on sound. :P Descriptions of the other side is limited aside from what you hear and what you draw out from that, you know? But I like making conversations, so lol.


End file.
